


There'll be no mansion waiting on the hill with crystal chandeliers

by ferreuscelo



Series: Freba Series [6]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, F/M, probably the only retrospective fic you'll ever read about Francis' parents, so here we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 19:36:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5552636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ferreuscelo/pseuds/ferreuscelo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before the monster, before the child, before marriage, before even themselves, there was just Marian and Michael.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There'll be no mansion waiting on the hill with crystal chandeliers

**Author's Note:**

> This is a short drabble about Marian Dolarhyde and Michael Trevane, Francis Dolarhyde's parents in canon. The title of the fic belongs to "All I Have To Offer You Is Me" by Charlie Pride. Because in my head, Francis' father was a country singer.

"Now, you're not being serious, are you?"

"Artists never lie."

It's been an hour since they started their chat at Dizzy's with a couple of martinis and a smoke. Out of all the girls in there, Michael Trevane had to look at her, the one with the blue dress and red buckle on her slim waist. It took him twenty minutes exactly to realize that she was playing with him, pretending to be upset at his insisting gaze and after a 'Will you light it, darling?' from her, he finally got a word from the mysterious lady as she held her cigarette to the young man.

"Do you paint?"

"No. As a matter of fact, no," Trevane answers with his deep baritone voice, taking another smoke for himself. As the match burns, he can see the flame reflected on her dark caramel eyes.

"Writer?"

"Nope," and he shakes the match to turn it off. "Musician." With a quick nod of his head, the man points down to the guitar case at his feet.

"Oh. That's wonderful!" The girl takes a long drag and smiles. Gosh, her smile. Pearly white, perfect. And she looks so perfect with that hairdo. It looks like it could have taken ages to anyone, but not to her. She looks practical. She looks like she got bored of the Beat shit and is actually wondering to other places. Not that many can do much in Springfield, Missouri. Old men look at you from their porches as you walk down the road as if you were a rat just because you're carrying an instrument. Music seems to be an abomination here for some, which is a completely ridiculous idea. Especially country music (played by an Irish, so ridiculous). Or perhaps it's his bad luck at meeting awful people. Who knows.

"I don't know if it is, but it's what I do," he answers with a chuckle.

Now, no sky looked bluer than the man's eyes. Intense sapphire with a few, minuscule dark dots near the pupil, so, so intense that could freeze anyone with a quick glance. Strangely so, they are also the reason why the girl standing next to him is melting. And yeah, perhaps her nose is a little too big for a girl, but she has learned how carry that particularity with an impeccable fresh attitude. Something that obviously drove Trevane to her.

"And what is it you're doing here?" she asks, trying really hard to not blush. Not now, not now, please.

"I'm... in for a show."

She gasps and her eyes go wide open. "Ozark Jubilee? Oh goodness, you're going to be there?"

Trevane laughs and takes a sip of his margarita. "I wish. But I'm poor."

"Aren't all artists?" she asks, breaking that gorgeous smile once more and leaning closer to him with cat like movements, elegant and almost sensual and not so subtle. "We are all doomed anyways, you know? The difference is that you can sing to it. Come on, let's get out of here."

Bold. The musician raises his eyebrows just a bit and pays for their drinks as he follows her to the door. The bartender shakes his head and looks away quickly, as his attention is caught by a merry group cheering for a girl to offer her mouth to those who'll bid higher than the rest.

Outside the night is cold, but it's nothing in comparison to what's going inside the strangers. She speaks of afternoons escaping from her mother's grasp and her first kiss with a neighbor, when she was seven. He speaks of his homeland, and how long since he left Belfast to look for new horizons in America. They speak of Nietzche, she knows her authors well and he can even cite him as their feet take them down the rocky street towards the river. They stop at someone's party where she pretends she knows the host, and Trevane laughs and follows her, almost shyly until she asks him to play his guitar for the guests. And he does. The hilarious thing is that the owner of the house believes he knows the singer, and after three bottles of bourbon, who wouldn't think that anyways.

Michael Trevane also learns that she plays billiards very well, for a girl so finely dressed like she is. And he wonders where she lives. Asking would be rude, actually. But the moment his hand rests on her shoulder as they sit at the shore, he knows she's the one. She doesn't tremble; she rests her cheek against his shoulder and wiggles her toes in the air, shoes in hand, and closes her eyes.

"I'm Marian."

...

There's a record in the attic of the Dolarhyde manor covered with dust and no one truly knows how it got there. It's under a pile of accounting books and old magazines. It's scratched. The scratch was actually made by the singer one night in which he was so drunk that the bottle of whiskey in his hand slipped and crashed on the ground, ruining the disc.

But no one ever played it at all.

No one truly, truly knows how it got there.

The man exercises on the ground nearby. Francis Dolarhyde will never know of its existence for it will burn down with the house that belonged to his family for generations. No one will miss the name on the label, no one will keep memories because there are none to be told. The artist died in a car accident long, long ago and never got the chance to meet his heir. Not even after his ex-wife told him about the boy's existence over the phone. No one, absolutely no one has ever truthfully acknowledged the existence of the boy, or the man even that is now.

Until her.


End file.
